


Grapple

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coming Untouched, Facials, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rewrite, Rimming, Season/Series 05, Turkish Wrestling, Wrestling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:34:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26089507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: Under the glow of flickering fluorescent bulbs, Dean looks down at the glass bottle in his hands and thinks, wholeheartedly, that Sam is a dead man.“It’s a sign of mutual respect,” Castiel says as he pulls his kisbet on, tying the two strings at the front into a bow. Dean keeps his eyes on the bottle, ignoring the fact that Castiel is practically naked, all six feet of him, muscles tight enough that Dean wants to bite him, just to test the give of his skin. “If you’re uncomfortable, I can do this myself—”“No,” Dean cuts him off. He can do this. It’s for the case, after all.2020 rewrite version
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 19
Kudos: 250





	Grapple

**Author's Note:**

> This is a rewrite of my older [fic of the same name!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3183041)

Under the glow of flickering fluorescent bulbs, Dean looks down at the glass bottle in his hands and thinks, wholeheartedly, that Sam is a dead man.

“It’s a sign of mutual respect,” Castiel says as he pulls his kisbet on, tying the two strings at the front into a bow. Dean keeps his eyes on the bottle, ignoring the fact that Castiel is practically naked, all six feet of him, muscles tight enough that Dean wants to bite him, just to test the give of his skin. “If you’re uncomfortable, I can do this myself—”

“No,” Dean cuts him off. He can do this. It’s for the case, after all. He’s done more humiliating things in his life than oil up an angel and wrestle with a hundred other grown men in a meadow in Colorado. Later, he’ll crank up the old Ouija board and ask the creator of Turkish wrestling what the hell they were thinking. “No, no, I can—It’s fine, Cas.”

Totally fine. Everything is peachy. Stepping closer, Dean ignores the chill in the air and just how close they are, and at some point, how Castiel is going to touch him too. _Mutual respect_ , he remembers. There’s nothing respectful about the situation in his own kisbet right now. Heavy leather embroidered with intricate patterns and pockets and hugging him in all the right places—the places he absolutely won’t be able to hide this afternoon, if anyone touches him.

He knows the rules, knows where hands are supposed to go and where they’re not. At one school, he wrestled his way into the state championship and won, all while telling himself that getting a chubby from close proximity was normal, that it wasn’t because he was into guys pushing him around. Hindsight is a fickle thing—at least then, he could lie to himself and believe it.

Castiel gives him a look, one bordering on the eye roll of the century, and Dean bites back his pride. “Fine,” he says, mostly to himself, and nearly upends the entire bottle of olive oil into his hand and onto the floor. Thankfully, he rescues it before it smashes and pours a generous amount into his hands, then sets it atop the sink. Castiel straightens up, tenser than Dean has ever seen him. _Nothing unusual here_ , Dean thinks, rubbing his hands together. _Just two guys being dudes_.

The first thought to cross Dean’s mind is how warm Castiel is at first touch. Fever-hot, Castiel is a wall of solid muscle, imposing and terrifyingly real. The fact that he’s allowing this doesn’t escape Dean—the fact that an angel, all holy wrath and power, is allowing this terrifies Dean to his core. One wrong move, and Castiel could throw him back southward, back onto the rack to spend the rest of eternity being torn apart by God knows what, just for the hell of it.

But he doesn’t. Castiel watches him with curiosity as Dean smooths his hands across Castiel’s body, letting the oil soak into his skin. He gleams under the bathroom light, like the light emanates from inside himself, rather than a cheap motel bulb. Gradually, he inhales and exhales, no trace of shame in his breath—Dean, however, thinks of dead kittens and naked grandmas to keep his heart rate normal and the blood in his brain. Castiel’s nipples peak as Dean runs his hands over his chest, then down, to the skin just below his waistband. His back is an even more tempting expanse of skin, and it takes all of Dean’s effort not to shove him against the wall and yank his pants down.

If only Castiel would stop looking at him. Spinning Castiel back around, Dean grabs the bottle before dropping to his knees, soaking his hands. Castiel’s thighs are firm, thick in a way Dean hasn’t ever considered. Before, the only sliver of skin Castiel ever showed was when he allowed Dean to cut a sigil into his chest. Now, he might as well be naked, and Dean on his knees in worship. He keeps his gaze low, cheeks red and burning while he rubs down Castiel’s legs from beneath the hem of his kisbet to his ankles.

Standing, Dean bites his tongue to keep from falling forward. The headrush will kill him before Castiel does, at this rate. “Arms,” Dean rasps and wets his hands one last time. Castiel offers him each arm, his eyes still on Dean while Dean rubs him down, pressing his fingers in.

By the time he finishes with Castiel’s shoulders, Castiel doesn’t look the least bit fazed. Dean, however, sweats, his heart beating wildly in his chest. Breathing doesn’t help—nor does talking. “How’s that?” he asks, tongue thick in his mouth.

Castiel admires Dean’s handiwork, the slightest hint of a smirk curling the corner of his lips. “Very good,” he says, and goes for the olive oil. “Now hold still.”

How he’s supposed to hold still is a question Dean poses to every god in existence. Castiel starts with his hands, slick fingers twining with Dean’s and moving their way up his arms. Dean’s consciousness threatens to ascend to a higher plane the more Castiel touches him, intimate enough to be sexual but not sexual enough to be arousing. His dick, though, hasn’t caught the memo, and Dean holds his breath in a vain attempt not to moan.

Dean relishes in the brief pause of Castiel reaching for the bottle—only, rather than actually doing the safest thing and dumping it into his hand, he pours a generous amount directly on Dean’s chest and lets it drip into his waistband. After, he sets the oil aside and runs his hands up Dean’s chest, smoothing the mess onto every square inch of his torso. All the while, Dean prays that he survives this, and that Castiel doesn’t notice the situation happening in his pants.

Especially when Castiel drops to his knees, his face mere inches away from where Dean wants his mouth, or hands, or something. Every inch of him begs for Castiel’s touch, and Castiel refuses to do anything more than the task at hand. “Finished,” Castiel says as he stands, without the slightest hint of shame on his face. Maybe he isn’t into this—maybe this is entirely one-sided, and Dean needs to spend some time with his right hand more than once a week. “Do you remember the rules?”

Rules—are there rules? “Don’t,” Dean tries, the concept of language entirely foreign. “Don’t go for the balls or— _Shit_ , don’t make me say it—”

“This sport is about respect, Dean.” Castiel tips Dean’s chin down with his thumb. “It wouldn’t kill you to treat it as such.”

“It might,” Dean blurts, earning a raised brow from Castiel. “Look, let’s just—get it over with. Shit to do, places to be.” _I need to jerk off ‘til I pass out_ , he almost says.

They still have a few hours before the meetup officially starts. This is purely practice, to make sure they’re competent enough to fit in. Because somewhere in this town is a pack of werewolves picking off unsuspecting festivalgoers, and the only way to infiltrate them is to blend in and act like they’ve been doing this for decades. How in the world they’re supposed to wash this off afterward is the second biggest unknown, preceded by, _what the fuck is happening_?

Castiel leads Dean out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, where minutes before, Castiel pushed both of their beds up against the wall. No towels on the floor, no protective covering anywhere—just musty carpet and a suspicious stain underneath one of the beds, one Dean hopes Castiel doesn’t try to shove him into. “So,” Dean starts, wiping his hands on his stomach. “Where do you want me?”

 _In bed_ , his libido screams at him. Castiel adjusts his kisbet, and Dean bites his cheek to keep from screaming.

“Here’s fine,” Castiel says. Rolling his shoulders, he lets his arms hang limp at his sides and cracks his neck. Then, before Dean can track him, he moves, seizing Dean’s shoulders to the best of his ability and shoving him, knocking him back a step. “Start like this. Push me.”

Simple enough. Dean mirrors his position and takes Castiel by the shoulders, their heads bumping; with every push, Castiel shoves back harder, somehow able to hold on while Dean’s hands slip. One hand slides down Castiel’s arm, and Castiel takes advantage of the lapse and slips his hand into the front of Dean’s kisbet to grab the meat of his thigh. In shock and horror, Dean falls, allowing Castiel to press him into the carpet by the back of the neck, pinning him.

 _Embarrassing_ , Dean thinks, followed by, _I think I feel his dick_. “Cas, dude,” Dean wheezes, torn between lying flat and fighting back. “You’re gonna smother me in fucking shag carpeting.”

“You have to fight me, Dean.” Castiel pushes down harder, hips pressing up against Dean’s ass. _That’s definitely his dick_. “You won’t last very long in bouts if you submit the first time a man touches you.”

Dean blinks—then scoffs. “I’m not submitting,” he complains. In retaliation, he reaches around and hooks Castiel by the back of the knee, using the bulk of his weight to topple Castiel onto his back. Basic maneuvering—slippery surfaces help. “How’s that—"

Castiel rushes up into Dean before he can finish his taunt, managing to pin him onto his stomach again, his hand shoved into Dean’s kisbet. Dean huffs, struggling under Castiel’s neck hold. “You’re strong, but you’re forgetting one thing,” Castiel says, then lowers his lips to Dean’s ear. “I’m stronger.”

Involuntary, Dean shivers. “Starting to think you like having your hand in my pants,” he grunts. “Let me up, let’s go again. That’s twice now.”

Without a thought, Castiel backs off and helps Dean to his feet, despite their slippery fingers and Dean’s sudden loss of leg function. Once standing, Dean takes the initiative and grabs Castiel by the shoulders; Castiel copies him, his eyes narrowed. “I’ve fought bigger guys,” Dean jeers with a smirk. “Just ‘cause you know what you’re doing—”

For a third time, Castiel reaches into Dean’s pants, this time around the back—and comes dangerously close to making Dean come without even trying. “Dude,” Dean squeaks as Castiel bowls him onto the floor, face-first with that suspicious stain. The fingers skirting into his cleft take his mind off it, coming close to—“Way too close, way too close.”

“Am I?” Smug, Castiel _touches_ him, petting his fingers across Dean’s rim, entirely too intimate, yet an ignition spark for his libido. “I’m not violating any rules. Do you enjoy being on your knees?”

 _Yes_ , Dean all but screams. “So what if I do?” He wiggles his hips, partially expecting Castiel to back off. Only, Castiel doubles down, two fingers pressing into his perineum, then swiping up, spreading oil across his skin. “Cas—”

“Concentrate,” Castiel says, an order. “Or do I have to teach you how?”

Oh— _Oh, Jesus Christ_. “Cas,” Dean says—whines, really. Heat floods his face, and his cock traitorously twitches, begging for friction. Castiel must feel it, based on the noise he makes, somewhere between curiosity and shock. “You don’t know what you’re doing, man.”

“I think I do.” Castiel dips a finger in, barely to the nail—and Dean buries his face in the carpet, lip between his teeth. “Yes or no, Dean.”

Yes or no what? To Castiel’s sadistic game of playing with his ass, or actually practicing? To his consent? “What?” Dean asks. Craning his neck, he glances under his arm to find Castiel looking right at him, waiting for his answer.

Castiel lifts a brow. “Do you submit?”

 _Yes, for the love of God, yes_. “Nah,” Dean says with his last remaining brain cell. The look Castiel shoots him is worth it—a challenge, one he intends to follow through on. “You gonna do something about it?”

“You lost the match,” Castiel warns. Pulling his arm free, he tucks his thumbs into Dean’s waistband and tugs his kisbet down to knees. _Fuck, fuck_. “Since I’m the oldest of the two of us, you should kiss my hand. On the other hand, I don’t think you deserve that.” Slick hands cover Dean’s hips, jerking him back; Dean spreads too eagerly, the rest of his blood rushing south when Castiel kisses his tailbone. “Tell me what you want.”

“Fuck,” Dean mutters into the carpet. Futilely, he grapples with the carpet and the rest of his sanity. What he wants, he can barely talk about, even with alcohol in his system. And Castiel wants him to tell him one of his deepest desires, like admitting it isn’t horrific enough. “I want,” he tries, hiding his face. _Make me come_ , he thinks in shame. _Make me come on your tongue_. “Fuck me with—”

“You can do this, Dean.” Releasing his hips, Castiel leans over him, gathering up Dean’s wrists and pinning them above his head. Leather presses up against Dean’s ass, the unmistakable bulge of Castiel’s cock grinding into his cleft. And with every thrust, he sends Dean further into the carpet, nipples taut and overstimulated by the friction. He could get off like this, all too easily. “Use your words.”

Another thrust—Dean cries out, gut clenched. “Fuck me with your tongue,” he says, practically one syllable. “’M fuckin’ hard, man…”

Somehow, Castiel parses through his attempt and smiles into his nape, leaving a kiss there. “Good,” he rumbles, leaning back. Dean shivers with the loss of his warmth. Skating his fingers down Dean’s spike, Castiel rubs Dean’s ass cheek before pulling back, bringing his palm down with force; Dean yelps and jerks away, only to be held in place by Castiel’s grip. “So good, telling me what you want.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean brushes him off halfheartedly. “You want a sticker or something?”

For his trouble, Castiel swipes his oiled thumbs over Dean’s rim, spreading him open for his tongue—the same tongue that licks him seconds later, warm and wet and entirely too foreign. And worst of all, Dean likes it; his cock twitches as Castiel teases him with the tip of his tongue, tracing circles over the ring of muscle before laving a flat stripe up his cleft, again and again.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Dean groans, wringing his fists in the carpet. Lightly, Castiel swats Dean’s ass, sending a shock through to his cock. Precome bubbles from the tip, leaking onto the floor, and Dean watches it bob in time with Castiel’s kisses. He could probably come from this, without Castiel touching his dick—a small part of him wants to try, while the rest screams for him to jerk himself, if only for a minute.

His tries, purely on instinct—Castiel slaps his hand away, then bites a mark into the meat of Dean’s ass. “You’ll come like this, or not at all,” he warns. Dean’s cock throbs in reply, balls drawn up just from hearing him speak. “Concentrate, Dean.”

“I’m trying,” Dean stammers. Again, Castiel thumbs him open, pressing a kiss to his rim before flicking his tongue; Dean shivers, smothering a moan into his arm. “Tryin’ so hard, so _fucking_ hard—”

Castiel slaps him with two fingers—not his ass, but his hole, and Dean shouts through a moan. “Good boy,” he hums and takes Dean by the hips, pulling him back onto his tongue.

And Dean follows him, the only thing he knows how to do, and curses, panting a string of obscenities into his arm. “Fuck me,” he begs, tears prickling the corners of his eyes. His skin burns, heightened by Castiel’s tongue doing absolutely sinful things to his ass, and the hands slipping up and down his thighs, his ribs, keeping him close, knees spread wide. “Touch it, you gotta—need you to touch it—”

“Like this,” Castiel repeats. He straightens up, the stubble of his beard scraping Dean’s rim on accident—and Dean convulses, orgasm held at bay by Castiel’s wandering hand squeezing the base of his cock. “Remember what I said, Dean.”

“On your tongue,” Dean says like a mantra. Desperately, he gasps for breath, heart jackhammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Swiping up Dean’s thigh, Castiel wets Dean’s hole with oil before sinking a finger in to the knuckle, curling it just where Dean wants while he licks in and around his rim. “On your tongue, on your _fucking_ tongue, God—”

“You’re close,” Castiel says.

And embarrassingly, Dean is. One eye open, Dean admires his cock between his legs, flushed red and dripping a constant string into the carpet. His toes curl when Castiel adds a second finger, the two of them pressed into his prostate and setting fire to his veins. Everything short circuits in that one moment, coupled with Castiel’s tongue snaking in just the barest inch and the hand slapping his ass, and Dean feels his orgasm rip through him before he can itemize just what it feels like to come without a hand on his cock. The breathlessness, the claustrophobia of being trapped in his own skin, before the inevitable release.

Come stains the carpet in a thick string, some of it painting Dean’s stomach, the rest pooling below. Castiel refuses to let up while Dean rides the high, fingers massaging his prostate until Dean twitches and writhes and begs for him to stop, to spare him. A few years younger, and Castiel could get him off twice—a little over thirty, and his cock aches as it attempts to harden once more.

Finally, after what feels like hours, Castiel pulls out and flips Dean onto his back, directly into the mess he made. Now that he can, Dean reaches out for him and tugs the strings of his kisbet, helping Castiel free his cock. Thick, veiny and shockingly red at the tip, he’s every wet dream Dean has ever had, and more. Seeking his own pleasure, Castiel strokes himself with a quick hand, stripping the head while his hips stutter and sway.

“That’s it,” Dean says with a grin. He teases Castiel’s nipple between two fingers and listens to him groan, a thrill warming his gut. “Fuck my mouth, c’mon—”

In one of his fantasies, Castiel fucks his throat, satisfying every craving Dean has ever had, and Castiel would pull out and come on his tongue, painting his skin with it until he licks him clean. In reality, Castiel grips him by the hair and denies him any opportunity to taste him. “You don't get this, Dean,” Castiel growls, in a timbre Dean has never heard of him. “You lost.”

 _Fuck_. “I’ll be good,” Dean whines and digs his fingers into Castiel’s thighs. “I’ll be good, I wanna—I wanna be good—”

Castiel tugs his hair harder and hastens his pace—and he comes, thick, fat trails spilling across Dean’s lips and chin. Dean catches some of it on his tongue, relishing in his taste as Castiel feeds him anything and everything he can. He licks the head of Castiel’s cock once Castiel finishes, gathering up the last of his come and swallowing it down.

Reality hits faster than Dean can track. Though, rather than shame, relief floods him, eased also by Castiel petting through his hair as they catch their breath. Castiel gathers up his come on his thumb, and Dean licks it clean and sucks it into his mouth, eyelids fluttering. Castiel tastes like cotton and oil, with the faintest hint of power bleeding through. “Where’d that come from?” Dean asks, kissing Castiel’s palm.

On unsteady knees, Castiel drops to the floor; Dean keeps him upright, laughing as Castiel rolls his eyes. “Do you regret it?” Castiel asks, then smiles when Dean shakes his head.

“Not gonna lie, I thought this’d happen sooner,” Dean laughs. “Probably gonna get hard every time I break out the olive oil.”

“It does make things easier,” Castiel chuckles. “Though, I’m not sure how we’re supposed to wash this off.”

That’s a good question—and one Dean doesn’t have an answer for. “Speaking of washing, you couldn’t’ve flipped me the other way?”

“Forgive me for being in the moment,” Castiel huffs. “But this,” he stops to smear in the come lining Dean’s nose, “is a good look on you.”

“Dude.” Balking, Dean flicks Castiel’s nose. “You can’t just say shit like that—”

Castiel cuts him off by licking his jaw, cleaning the come from his skin. “I want more of you,” he says, edging closer. “While we’re still here…”

Dean’s cock twitches, half-hard but more than willing. “Wanna take this to the bed?”

“We’ll get the sheets dirty,” Castiel says.

“Two beds.” Making his way to his knees, Dean slides one between Castiel’s thighs. “Wanna see what it’s like to get fucked like this.”

A wicked grin spreads across Castiel’s lips. “Then go get on your stomach.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome! I'm sorry I've been away, but I've been working on my DCBB for the better part of... two months, and I FINALLY finished it. And Bexy told me on multiple occasions that she loved Grapple, and I realized after I wrote it that I left out the most important part, that they have to oil each other up. So here you go, a rewrite of a five year old fic! Hopefully this also shows how my writing has changed in that period, since I'm incredibly proud of my current style ;A;
> 
> I hope y'all are well! Comments and kudos are always appreciated, and I'm always on Twitter!
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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